


They Give You

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, David Bowie (Musician), Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1887090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has dreams about glitter. Glitter in his hair and glitter on his skin, sparkling in the sweat shiny curve of his own collarbone. When he's dreaming, he thinks he can taste it on his tongue, small and glorious. It tastes like copper. Like blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Give You

Patrick has dreams about glitter. Glitter in his hair and glitter on his skin, sparkling in the sweat shiny curve of his own collarbone. When he's dreaming, he thinks he can taste it on his tongue, small and glorious. It tastes like copper. Like blood.

It's funny, he thinks, as he touches David's fingers and traces the warm band of his wedding ring. In person, the glitter tastes like nothing at all.

"Is this really okay?" Patrick asks, even as he presses his mouth, open and wanting, to the long, flat plane of stomach that he's spent years jerking off to.

"We don't believe in monogamy," David says, his accent foreign and his voice low. Patrick can feel it rumbling into his mouth. "No one's heart is big enough to hold onto to one person completely."

Patrick curls his hands around David’s hips and squeezes. God, but he loves the way the man can talk. He feels insignificant next to him, young and soft and tragically uncool, but David keeps touching his hair and spreading glitter from his own body onto Patrick’s. He hopes it sinks right into him and leaves a mark. 

David’s stage costume is all psychedelic red and orange and green, cut like a dress but made out of thick fabric like a suit. Patrick touches the single button that’s done up, right over David’s naval, and it slips free. The costume slides down and off David’s arms and collapses onto the floor with a heavy sound. 

Patrick pulls it to himself, feels the dampness of the fabric, and tucks it beneath his knees. His own pants are made of velvet and barely make any cushion between his knees and the hard floor of the hotel room. Patrick wonders, for a moment, if the rooms in England are different, and then lets himself forget.

David is beautiful and shameless, proud in his nudity. Patrick wants to seal this into his memory forever: the concave curve of David’s stomach, the sweeping broadness of his shoulders, the angle of his cocked hip. Patrick is dizzy with want. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes out, like he didn’t already know that. He’s seen every photoshoot and movie David’s ever been in, has worn out photographs hidden under his bed, but nothing could have prepared him for the real deal.

“We’re all gorgeous,” David says around a sharp smile. His lips are golden, shiny with lipstick. It tastes waxy on Patrick’s tongue when David bends to kiss him. When he pulls away, it’s smeared onto David’s cheek, into the heavy red blush. Patrick wants to wreck his makeup and see the man underneath. “You’re gorgeous.”

Patrick laughs, because the idea is ridiculous, but the heat simmering inside his stomach is more pressing than his pride. He wraps a hand around David’s cock just to feel its weight. It’s heavier than his own, full and thick. The sound David makes is breathy and dark and makes Patrick’s blood sing.

When he puts his mouth to the soft curls at the base of David’s cock, he does it with something he thinks could be called reverence. He smells salt and sweat and the earthy scent of men that never really goes away. He feels _alive_. Thin fingers slide through the long sides of his hair, pushing it away from his face as he sucks the head of David’s cock into his mouth. It tastes like what he imagines the sea would. 

“Look at you,” David breathes, soft enough that Patrick barely hears it. He strokes Patrick’s cheek where it’s bulging out, feeling himself through the shield of Patrick’s skin. Patrick’s never been religious, but he thinks this is what praying would feel like. 

Patrick wraps his hand around the base of David’s cock, palms the heavy weight of his balls. He goes slow, licks a long line up the shaft and taps the pulled back foreskin with the tip of his tongue. When he wraps his lips around the head again, guiltily enjoying the way his mouth is stretched wide open. 

He’s never let himself do this before, never let himself even think about touching another man. As he presses down, down, down onto David’s cock, his mouth so slick with his own spit, he lets himself feel a tingle of pride run up his spine.

David Bowie’s cock is in his mouth.

“Patrick,” David says, his thumb rubbing the spot right behind Patrick’s ear. He rocks his hips forward, and Patrick takes him as deep as he can. He could stay there for the rest of his life and be perfectly happy. 

Patrick bobs his head, hollows his cheeks around him. He wants to know if he’s at least half as good as the others that have been here before him. When he looks up, David’s watching. Patrick presses a palm to his own cock and moans. He thinks he can feel it feeding back into him through David’s skin. 

“Patrick,” David says again. There’s something off about his accent that makes Patrick pause. His dick twitches under his hand. He’s so hard it makes his head hurt. Under his hand, David feels like smoke. “Patrick.”

Patrick swings when he wakes up, barely connecting with the arm that’s been shaking him awake. For a moment, he’s dizzy confused, and then he remembers falling asleep in Pete’s guest room. His stomach twists with regret. If he goes back to sleep right this second, he might get to finish what he’d started. 

“Ziggy or Thin White Duke?” Pete asks, blowing the steam off the top of his coffee. He’s already halfway across the room. He grins, all those big teeth of his on display, and Patrick throws a pillow at him. It misses by a long shot, but Pete still swears as he sloshes coffee onto his hand.

“Fuck off,” Patrick grumbles into the mattress. His shorts are sticky and damp against his skin, but he isn’t going to let Pete have the satisfaction of getting proof of what he already knows. Patrick wonders if he’d been talking in his sleep again, or if it was just that obvious. 

“Ziggy,” Pete says. He puts the coffee cup on the dresser and pats Patrick’s head once, twice, three times. “Drink up. We’ve got practice in an hour.”

Patrick waits for him to leave before rolling out of the wet spot and taking a long pull of the coffee. He thinks, just for a moment, that it tastes like glitter.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I really just wanted someone else to write Patrick having wet dreams about David Bowie and NO ONE WOULD DO IT.


End file.
